Clearing my throat, I amend, “It was a terrible fudging idea.”
My eyebrows waggle. Melody blinks.
“Fudging,” I repeat, then let out a drawn-out sigh. “You know, fudge. Cupcakes. C’mon, that pun was gold.”
She stares at me for a moment before a smile stretches and her eyes shimmer with humor. “Oh, my God,” Melody replies, bursting into a fit of giggles and flipping one braid over her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Parker. My mind turned to sludge an hour ago, and I’m living in a perpetual hot flash.”
Her cheeks are rosy red, the flush spreading down her neck and chest. My palms reach out to pull her close, one pressing along her stomach, while the other reaches around her neck.
Fuck, she’s beautiful.
Placing a lingering kiss to her forehead, I whisper, “Now you know what it’s like for me being around you every day.”
She shivers. “Yeah, right… I’m a bowling ball within a bowling ball.”
“You’re fucking gorgeous.” My lips travel down her cheek, landing on two full lips, and I murmur suggestively, “How much time do we have before people show up?”
Melody melts into me for a blissful moment, temptation seizing her. But she quickly collects her bearings and delves right back into panic-mode. “Twenty minutes.”
The doorbell rings.
She goes ashen.
August pushes past us both with a squeal of excitement, still holding onto Nutmeg, while Walden hobble-skips along with her to the front of the house.
I take Melody’s face between my hands and bring her gaze to mine, smiling softly until she noticeably relaxes. “Melody March-Denison.”
“Yes?” she squeaks.
“How many batches of cupcakes did you already make?”
“Twelve.”
“Twelve batches, a dozen each? That’s one-hundred-and-forty-four cupcakes.”
She nods.
“How many regular cakes did you make?”
“Two.”
“Okay, well… if my math checks out, that equals approximately a-lot-of-fucking-cake. Everything will be okay, nobody will starve, and our grandchildren’s grandchildren will still have leftovers to spare.”
Melody heaves in a calming breath, curling her fingers around my wrists. Her eyes flicker with acceptance as she lifts her chin. “You’re right.”
“I know.”
“But…” Her tongue pokes out to slick her lips, and she swallows hard. “I burned the lemony ones.”
“With the meringue filling?”
She nods again.
“Fuck.”
Our mutual disappointment is interrupted when our daughter comes bounding back through the house, beaming with enthusiasm, her lacy dress billowing behind her little legs. “Uncle West and Auntie Lee-Lee!”
West and Leah enter the house with massive giftbags, likely containing obnoxiously loud toys that I’ll need to lose the batteries for. Melody tugs me inside through the back door and darts straight to Leah. The women do their girly hugging thing as West approaches, eyeing me warily in his khakis and lame polo.
“Hey, asshole.”
My arms cross, my gaze assessing him with equal distaste. “Hey.”
It’s been an interesting few years getting to know Melody’s brother. The truth is, we don’t have much in common. He likes beer and sports, while I like things that aren’t beer and sports. He enjoys going out to bars. The only thing I enjoy about bars is the leaving part. He has terrible taste in movies, and even worse taste in music, and he was a huge pain in my ass during the wedding planning two years ago when Melody and I decided on an intimate backyard ceremony instead of a ballroom extravaganza.
But fucking West just had to take over and hire a shitty rock band to serenade us with godawful Nickelback covers all night. He even got up on stage and sang that Photograph song as some kind of horrifying dedication, and Christ, that song was terrible enough to begin with—the memories still haunt me.
He also made a giant fucking spectacle of himself when he got trashed and drunkenly proposed to Leah in front of our seventy-five guests.
She slapped him. Then she kissed him. And then she slapped him again.
I’m pretty sure that sums up their entire relationship.
Last summer, they took a spontaneous trip to Las Vegas with another couple and “accidentally” got married by an Elvis impersonator who doubled as a male gigolo. Nobody is entirely sure what the fuck is going on between them, but honestly, I don’t think they do either.
But for all of our animosity, bickering, and insults, I think the thing we hate most is that we really don’t hate each other at all.
The asshole isn’t half bad. He loves the fuck out of Melody, and it’s hard not to respect someone like that. Not to mention, he really came through when I got this psychotic idea of building an entire second level onto my little ranch house. I figured we could use the extra space with our growing family, and apparently, I hate sleep and free time.
West helped me get Melody’s house fixed up to put on the market, and then he dedicated a hell of a lot of time to helping me with the new addition. He’s an electrician, so he actually knew his shit, and we semi-bonded over circuit breakers and ground conductors.
He narrows his eyes at me as we hold our stare, but West cracks first, a smirk lifting. “You get that dimmer switch all installed in the new nursery?” he wonders, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Yeah. You figure out the HVAC problem for that one douchebag customer?”
He sniggers. “After all that, it was an issue with the flame sensor.”
“Shit.”
A beat goes by, easy smiles passing between us.
We fist-bump.
August bounces up and down in front of us with a wide smile, her pigtails bouncing with her. She holds up her arms to Leah, stealing her raven-haired godmother’s attention away from Melody. “Lee-Lee! Look at my fucky hamster. She has birfday hat.”
Oops.
I try my best to dissolve into the hardwood flooring when all three heads jerk towards me.
Leah clears her throat in an attempt to cover up her laughter. “Your fucky hamster. Wow, Aug, I can’t believe how cute she looks in that hat. And how… alive.”
She mouths to me, “How is it still alive?”
The thing has got to be four or five. Pretty sure it’s an alien hamster. Or a robot, like my sister.
I shrug.
Speaking of Bree, I step away from the crowd to pull out my phone. She was heading over to the party after her shift at the hospital, but it’s typical for her to get roped into more work.
While there are no notifications from Bree, there is a new Hangouts message waiting for me.
A genuine smile creeps in when my eyes skim over the message from my favorite pen pal.
RacerDude: I made the baseball team!!!
Fuck. Yes.
Zephyr79: Atta boy. I knew you would.
RacerDude: Thank u for helping me pitch the other day. I know u don’t really like sports.
Zephyr79: It was fun. You’re a natural. You can pay me back with a joyride when you’re a famous race car driver someday.
RacerDude: Yea right! Oh.. mom told me to tell you that we have a b-day present for August. Sry we can’t make the party today.